The Defense of Light and Dark
by slyprentice
Summary: Desperation is the raw material of change. HarryDraco. TimeTravel. Post HBP.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **The Defense of Light and Dark**  
Author: **Prentice**  
Rating: **R**  
Pairing: **Draco/Harry

**Spoilers: **Post-HBP; During/Post-Hogwarts

**Warnings**: This is a work-in-progress, therefore completely unedited save for spell-checking and a read-through. Once the story is done, this will be corrected.

**Feedback:** is cherished and appreciated.

**Summary: **Desperation is the raw material of change.

**Author's Note: **This story is very much set after the events of Half-Blood Prince, however, those events will be heavily glossed over and there is a slight fork from canon (that will be explained as the story progresses). Please be sure to read the end notes at the bottom of the page after reading each chapter. They will explain certain aspects of the story that may not be perfectly clear.

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**Chapter 1**: Diagon Alley 

"Desperation is the raw material of change. Only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape." – Burroughs, William S.

**Early December, 2008**

Diagon Alley in winter. Cheerful by most anyone's standards. Cheerful and cold, that is. Not that anyone seemed to notice the latter beyond an uncontrollable shiver here and there. They were too busy smiling, shopping, and laughing. Blissful in their ignorance powered peace.

Draco Malfoy scowled, pulling his worn dragon-hide cloak around himself tighter. He hated winter. He hated everything about it. From the crisp air that burned his lungs and stung his cheeks when he inhaled to the blinding holiday cheer that sprang from every corner nonstop since the beginning of autumn.

It was ridiculous. Completely and wholly asinine and here he was in the thick of it, being jostled about by joyful passersby. His frown deepened, brow wrinkling in disdain, before he was pressing forward through the crowd, ignoring the disapproving glares from mother's herding their children from one store to the next. Like he bloody gave a damn what they thought. Wankers, all of them.

Side stepping through a gaggle of twittering young witches, all of whom were staring starry-eyed at an advertisement of Wizard Wireless Network's latest poster boy, the blonde lifted a hand to his face and scrubbed irritably, barely noticing the scratch of his trimmed beard against his palm.

It was not a new guise, the beard. He'd had it for well over a year now - longer in fact, if you counted the years in which he'd lived without being able to trim or shave it, which he didn't. But now, he hardly noticed it other than the occasional glance in the mirror in the morning to make sure it hadn't grown out overly much.

It was peculiar look for him. Much darker in contrast to the white-blonde hair on his head; his beard grew heavy and thick unlike the thin almost silk-like strands of the rest of his body hair. It swathed his chin and jaw like a blanket, covering his pale features in a golden hue half way down. Light meets dark. Dark meets light. Even on his face. The irony of nature's natural hiccup was not lost, even on him.

Dropping his hand to the edge of his cloak, Draco curled his fingers around the swaying material, gathering it close to his body and out of the way of a hapless passerby. The last thing he needed was a confrontation and Merlin knew he'd have one if someone happened to brush up against him just so, exposing what lay beneath his robes:

Knives, an unsanctioned and untraceable wand, spell protected potion bottles, a talisman, and a deadly viper's fang pendant he wore on a sterling chain around his neck. That was not to mention if someone were to notice the state he was in, the blood on his robes, or the way he seemed to be flitting through the crowd, never meeting a single persons eye for more than a moment or two.

He glanced around, seeing the smiling faces everywhere. No, he definitely didn't want a confrontation. It would only end him in Azkaban. Again. That was not an option.

Scanning the crowd, he managed side stepping of yet another group, young boys this time, whom were staring through a window with gleeful reverence. The latest Quidditch broom, then. It had to be. Only that would inspire such pulling of ranks and glazed wonderment.

The twenty-eight year old shook his head, eyes going back to the swarm of bodies moving around him. Could he ever have been that young? That naïve? That…carefree?

No, probably not. Malfoy's were not raised that way. No contact with the unwashed masses. If he had wanted to see the latest model of racing broom, he would have had to arrange a special viewing after hours or sneak a look while his father or mother was otherwise occupied. No contact with mere mortals for Lucius Malfoy's son.

Bitterness swirled, black and ugly in the pit of his stomach, before he shoved it away, locking it in the recesses of his mind. He would not live in the past. He would not live in the future. He would live now and only now. Always.

Hastening his pace along the bustling cobbled path, he moved with smothered grace, gray eyes scanning in constant vigilance. He was an indistinguishable wizard among other indistinguishable wizards, none of who knew what danger they were in or who he was. That was exactly the way he wanted it.

* * *

**Early December, 1998**

The Three Broomsticks was near to bursting. Normally warm and inviting, strained laughter and semi-whispered conversation rang out from every corner in a synchronization of noise that managed to be both unsettling and unpleasant all at once. Anxiety and frayed nerves hovered in the air thick as goblin's pipe tobacco, making all present acutely aware that times were not as they should be.

Harry Potter sighed, shifting in his seat as he stared blankly into the depths of his half drank butterbeer, shaggy dark bangs laying flat against his forehead, for once managing to obscure his jagged lightening bolt scar. It was better to stare into the amber colored depths than to listen to the frightened whispers around him.

He knew what they would be about, anyway. He always did. There were only a handful of possibilities these days. When they weren't discussing Death Eater attacks in fearful panicked whispers, mourning the loss of those who did not live through them, they were talking about one of three things: The-Boy-Who-Lived, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, or….Dumbledore.

**Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.**

**September, 1840 – June, 1997**

**Headmaster of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. **

**Beloved brother, friend, and mentor. **

**Champion of the Light. **

'_Only in Darkness, will the Light truly guide us.'_

That was what his memorial, the plaque of shinning gold, said above the bar. The Gryffindor knew it word for word. Letter by letter. It was imprinted in his heart just as surely as it was in his mind.

A great shuddering sigh escaped his lips, the ever present, ever persistent ache in his chest burning and making his throat tight. Madam Rosmerta had the plaque arranged and gilded less than a month ago, securing it high above the bar, in a place of honor, for all to see. Many a Hogwarts student and teacher silently toasted the plaque now, faces mournful and eyes a sea of grief. This war, this Dark Age, was taking away their hope, their light, and leaving them with just this…a plaque on the wall.

Another shift and Harry was pulling his stinging, blurry eyes away from the tablet, forcing him self to glance out the window. Torrents of icy rain splashed the cobbled streets, pebbles of sleet pouncing off warded vendor tables harmlessly. The few witches and wizards that were left out braving the winter storm all moved quickly, despite the fact that a quick casting of _umbella_ would keep most, if not all, of the freezing downpour away.

Harry didn't blame them. Who would wish to be out in a storm? One that so clearly reflected the gloom that hung heavily over everyone nowadays?

He shook his head. Hermione was right; he shouldn't have come here today. He should have stayed away, should have listened to her even as she had scolded him for calmly casting various glamour's upon himself so he could go out for a while, get away.

'_It isn't safe, Harry'_, she had admonished, brown eyes glaring and pleading all at once, '_you could get hurt. You could get worse than hurt!'_

'_I'll be fine, Hermione. I just need to…get out for a while.' _He remembered saying, carefully slipping his wand into his robes and looking at himself in the mirror. A stranger, dark skinned and a tad overweight, stared back at him. The image frowned, lifting a hand to try to flatten his hair over the lightening bolt scar that not even glamour could hide. Harry had done the same, carefully arranging his hair.

'_Harry-'_ Hermione had begun but he cut her off, already knowing what she would say.

'_I need this, Hermione. I _need_ this. I need to get away. I need to…to have a moment where I'm not here, where everyone isn't following me around, where Ginny isn't always staring and I don't…there isn't…' _his voice had failed him then and he had looked at her helplessly, lifting his shoulder in a half-hearted attempt for her to understand.

Silent moments had passed, his best friend face a mixture of disapproval and empathy. Finally, _'promise you will only go to the Three Broomsticks and back.'_

Relief and gratitude surged forth and he couldn't help but hug her, letting out a shaky breath as he felt her arms close around him, squeezing him once, gently in understanding. _'I promise. I'll be back soon.'_

'_I'll tell everyone you're taking a nap. No one will come looking for you, then. If they do, Ron and I will cover for you.' _With that, she had slipped out the door, closing it quietly behind her as though he really were asleep, and leaving him to do as he needed.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Harry sent silent thanks out into the cosmos for whatever he had done to garner such loyal friends. They were definitely one of a kind. He only hoped he deserved them.

TBC

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1. _Umbella_ is the Latin form of umbrella.  
2. The first half of this story is set a decade in the future (obviously), the second half is set about six-seven months after the events of the Half-Blood Prince. 


	2. Chapter 2

Please be sure to check previous part for disclaimer, warnings, and story information. Feedback is much cherished.

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**Chapter 2: Knockturn Alley**

"Even in our darkest hour, our farthest depths, we struggle to rise above."

**Early December, 2008**

Borgin and Burkes by daylight was not much to look at. Though one of the largest establishments along Knockturn Alley, the shop was still small and cluttered, stuffed full of dark artifacts for sale. From books to shrunken heads, potions to slithering creatures, the store breathed of sinister intent and danger.

Pulling the hood of his cloak down over his features, the blonde stepped into the dingy shop, ignoring the musky repugnant odor that filled his nostrils and allowed his eyes a moment to adjust. A creaking groan of a sound resonated from the floorboards as he shifted out the way of the door, permitting it to close behind him with a soft thump.

The chill of the shop curled around him, seeping into his robes in a way that the temperature outside had yet to do. Not surprising, really, with the number of dark objects around him, some of which surely pulled their power from external sources. He could all but feel their menacing force pushing against his magic, tendrils of power mixing together and compelling him forward, closer. He resisted the urge.

"Ah, you're here then."

Draco blinked, turning to the scratchy voice, face impossibly blank despite the urge to grimace at the man who stood before him. Borgin, proprietor to the shop, was not an impressive man to look at in the least. Slightly oily and hunchbacked, the man's smile was truly gruesome to behold. Blackened and yellow teeth protruded from his mouth, looking as though he had sucked on a lump of margarine, and his face distorted itself into something that vaguely reminded the blonde of a vulture waiting for its prey to expire.

"Mr. Borgin," he acknowledged the man, his own voice rough, "I trust everything is arranged?"

The man's face twisted again, smile curling around the edges. "Yes, yes, everything is perfectly arranged."

"Very good—"

"However," Borgin cut in, yellow teeth flashing in the dimly lit store, "there is a small matter that we need to…ah…discuss."

Draco didn't fight the grimace that arose this time. He'd been expecting this, almost from the very beginning. "And, what is it that we need to discuss, Mr. Borgin? I believe that we've already covered everything of importance these last few days."

Borgin shook his head, graying wisps of greasy hair moving. "Ah, no sir. There is the small point of my…_payment_."

An eyebrow rose on its own accord, though Borgin himself didn't see it because of his cloak hood. "I believe we've already discussed your payment many times, Mr. Borgin. Last week I was under the impression that all accounts had been settled."

The proprietor shook his head again, swaying his body to the side for a moment as though he was pained to even bring up such a subject. His hands, for which had been curled to his chest, bony and pale, unfurled slightly, drifting in the air in such a manner that Draco was sure it was practiced. "They were, of course, until, you understand, I realized that some…compensations…must be made. This is an extremely delicate matter, one that should the Ministry hear of…"

Greedy bastard. "I see." Greedy _stupid_ bastard.

The man gave a solemn nod, once again seemingly pained to bring up it. "Yes, sir. I'm sure you understand that were the Ministry to start nosing around _here_, asking _questions_, ones that I cannot fully _answer_. Well… "

"Of course, Mr. Borgin, I believe we understand each other." Reaching into his robes, carefully keeping them closed so the other man would not see beyond them, he tugged a leather purse from one of his many pockets, hearing the clink of galleons and sickles. He held the small pouch out to the man. "Perfectly."

Another nod and the man palmed the pouch, slipping into one of the pockets of his dirty robes. He smiled, oily features flushing. "Everything is prepared, if you will follow me."

Turning on his heels, the hunchback made his way to the back of the store, weaving his way through the dark artifacts, Draco close on his heels.

"Have all the modifications been made to my specifications?" He asked, moments later as he carefully avoided the outreaching hand of something that, as close as he could tell, resembled a demented monkey with no fur.

"Of course, the last of the modifications were completed not an hour ago by myself and no other." Borgin replied, stopping in front of an open doorway that lead through to, what Draco expected to be, the storage room, before he turned. "You may check, if you wish."

Draco gave a short nod, eyes scanning the darkness as he stepped through the doorway, drawing his wand.

"Lumos."

The darkness lifted and the small room became awash with light from his wand point, illuminating that it was, indeed, a storage room.

"It's just there, in the middle of the room, sir. Everything else has been moved out, save for the tables." Borgin's voice came from behind him, fraying on his nerves ever so slightly.

Draco simply nodded, moving further into the room. Borgin hadn't lied. Nothing was in the room save for empty wooden tables that were pressed along the walls, out of the way, and there, in the exact centre of the room, was what he came for.

"You realize that if you have lied to me, Borgin, that I will kill you." His voice was low, gravely even, and he did not have to look back to know that man was shuffling on his feet nervously, greedy hands clutching at the pocket which held the money.

"I…know."

Draco nodded again, long legs carrying him forward to circle the object. It didn't take long for him to mutter his way through a variety of spells and incantations to make sure that the man had not lied; had made every modification that was requested.

Every alteration was done to a tee and there was not a single reason for him to believe that man had deceived him. This meant there were only a few things left to do. A few _very_ _important_ things left to do.

Stepping back through the doorway, Draco looked down at the man, gray eyes flashing beneath his hood. "You did very well, Mr. Borgin. I trust that you spoke of this to no one?"

Borgin flinched, shaking his head. "Of course not, sir."

"Excellent."

With a whip of robes, the blonde turned on his heels, weaving his way back through to the front of the store, single mindedly ignoring all the tempting dark magic around him, wand still in hand. Once there, he cast a quick glance through the dirty window, noting that not a single person could be seen.

Good. Very good.

Lifting his wand, he pointed it at the entrance, muttering a spell, one that would ensure that he would not be interrupted any time soon:

"_Colloportus._"

The tell-tale squelch of the door sealing was all that could be heard in the shop as he quietly made his way back to the shop keeper, who was looking nervously between him and the now sealed front door, something akin to alarm on his features.

"Sir—" The hunchback began, bony fingers twitching.

"You've done me a great service, Mr. Borgin." Draco murmured, glancing through the open doorway. "A great service."

"Ah…well…it was my…ah, pleasure…" The man floundered.

He turned, a forbidding smile slowly quirking his lips. "I'm sure it was, Mr. Borgin. However," he began calmly, using the same turn of phrase as the man before him had just minutes ago. "There is a small matter that we need to discuss."

Panic flashed in the other man's dark eyes, oily face turning ashen around the edges. "Is there? I…had thought everything was in order."

"Oh, yes." Draco lifted his wand again, pointing it straight at the panicked man before him, smile twisting grimly. "Everything is in perfect order."

"Then – then, what?" Hands fluttered up, clutching once again at the pocket the leather pouch was in.

"Forgive me, Mr. Borgin," Draco murmured, "but this is for the best…"

"B-b-best—?"

"_Avada Kedavra." _

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**Early Decemeber, 1998**

The rain was beginning to peter out. As was the crowd within the Three Broomsticks, most of the groups choosing to leave while there looked to be a small reprieve from the winter storm. It didn't look as though it would last long, however.

Harry could already see the clouds fluffing and thickening, slowly preparing for a flurry of snow that was sure to come. He sighed, bringing the mug of now cold butterbeer to his lips, gulping down the last of its contents. He needed to go soon.

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End Notes: 

1. _Colloportus_: "collio" L. to bind + "portus" L. door.  
A spell to seal a door, makes an odd squelching noise.


	3. Chapter 3

**Please be sure to read chapter 1 for disclaimer and warnings.**

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**Chapter 3: Vanishing**

"Time is coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you." – Carl Sandburg

**Early December, 2008**

It wasn't the first time that Borgin and Burkes had a body on the floor. Even recently, there had been bodies. However, it was the first time that it happened to belong to one of the proprietors.

Draco stared down at Cecil Borgin's crumpled body, jaw set into a grim line, wand hand slowly lowering. He'd killed before. Many, many times before; so many, in fact, that he had lost count of the exact numbers years ago.

During the war, especially in those final weeks, he'd killed almost every day, every hour, until he could do it with no regrets, no remorse, and still look at himself in the mirror and not see a monster. He had simply been a man – a wizard – doing what he needed to do to survive. Even now, staring down at the greedy owner of one of the biggest dark arts shops, he felt – nothing. Absolutely nothing.

"It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Borgin." Draco murmured, pointing his wand at the man's body once more, making a sharp slashing motion. "_Accio_ _pouch_."

Instantaneously, the leather purse that held his money tugged itself from the dead man's pocket and flew into his waiting, outstretched hand. Hefting it, he stared down at the small bag blankly, hearing the jangle of coins before shaking his head and tucking it into his robes. "I'm sorry it had to be this way."

Moving forward, he stepped over the man's corpse and into the bare storage room, forcing the shop owner out of his mind. He couldn't change what he had done. He wouldn't have even if he were able to, anyway. It was too late. He did what he had to do and what he had to do was make sure there were no witnesses.

"It will be worth it in the end," he murmured, taking a deep breath. Yes, it would be worth it. It had to be.

Sliding his wand into the folds of his robes, Draco walked forward cautiously, staring hard at the black enamel. If he did this, there would be no turning back. No changing his mind at the last moment and coming back through. This was a one time, one chance, only task.

Reaching out a hand, the blonde grimaced, seeing the slight tremor that ran down his arm to his fingertips, but ignored it. Now was not the time to give in to piteous self-indulgence, nor was it the time to concentrate on anything other than what he must do.

Ghosting his trembling fingers over the surface of the cabinet's exterior, snatches of memories brimmed to the forefront of his mind, startlingly in their clarity. How many years had it been now? He could hardly remember the exact dates, the exact times, but the images were still there. Obviously.

"It will be _worth_ it," he whispered fiercely, jerking his hand back to his side. Flexing his fingers, the twenty-eight year old steeled him self, taking a deep breathe in through his nose. He would do this.

Grasping the lock on the cabinet door, he flipped it open, pulling the latch and door open at once. Shadowed empty space lay before him, amazingly sinister in its simplicity. His stomach lurched.

He would do this.

A deep breath, a slow blink, a long exhale.

He stepped forward…

…and disappeared.

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**Early December, 1998**

The rain was coming in a steady mist. Small, miniscule droplets that might as well have been snow from the way they seemed to drift to the ground instead of fall. The Three Broomsticks windows were a watery blur.

Harry sighed heavily. It was time to go. Plunking the drained mug onto the table in front of him, he dug a hand into the pocket of the jeans he wore beneath his robes, searching for the small amount of coins he stuffed there before he left the safe house.

Hermione was right. Perhaps it wasn't the best idea for him to be out today. To be here today. He should have listened to her.

"Want another one, love?" The voice was scratchy, soft, and distinctly female. He shook his head, sparing a quick glance up at Madam Rosmerta, before looking away just as soon.

She looked completely drawn. Dark circles under her eyes, cheeks sunken in, eyes dim; she looked wan and haunted. Strained in a way that Harry knew would only take a little prodding before breaking her entirely.

"No, thank you." He murmured, wrenching his hand from his pocket and dropping a galleon or two onto the table. "I think I'll be leaving."

"All right, then." Her voice was like daggers to his heart, ripping him up inside. She shouldn't sound like this, look like this, be like this. "Well, please come back some time."

Harry nodded, getting to his feet quickly, wincing inwardly at the startled looks he received and the way Madam Rosmerta took a hasty step back and away from him. She was scared. All the time. Everyone was.

"Thank you for the butterbeer, ma'am," he whispered, wishing he could reach out a hand and comfort her – give her some small kernel of hope in her now bleak existence – but he couldn't. It wasn't his place and he didn't know what to say. She had been used, violated by an unforgivable, made to hurt others and there was no amount of words that could make it right. "I'll come back sometime."

Turning on his heels, the teenager barely spared a glance for anyone else in the pub as he made his way to the door, thankful for the glamour he had used so as not to feel the heavy weight of others stares upon him. He doubted with the way he was feeling he could handle it. At all.

TBC...

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End Note:  
1. Cecil is pronounced _Cess-il_; just random trivia for you.

2. Realising that this is, indeed, a very short part, I can assure you that the next part is (finally) when the action starts.


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